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Hannah, the Hannah with him here in Raha right now, wasn’t Hannah at all. She was Princess Emmeline d’Arcy, the twenty-five-year-old royal from Brabant engaged to King Zale Patek of Raguva.
Which meant he hadn’t kissed Hannah, but Princess Emmeline.
It hadn’t been Hannah who had captured his imagination and turned him on, it was Emmeline.
It was Emmeline he’d wanted. Emmeline who had created a night of hot, erotic thoughts.
Unbelievable.
He drummed his fingers on the desk.
Unthinkable.
He didn’t know what game she was playing, but he’d soon find out.
Unforgivable.
He slapped his hand down hard on the desk and got to his feet. Time he paid a call on the princess.
CHAPTER SEVEN
EMMELINE answered the knock on her door, hoping against hope it was breakfast as she’d rung for eggs and toast a half hour ago, but it wasn’t anyone from the kitchen on her doorstep. It was Makin Al-Koury, looking elegant and polished, if a tad forbidding in his black trousers and black shirt.
He must have just showered and shaved because his dark hair still gleamed, the skin on his bronze jaw was taut and smooth and she caught a whiff of his spicy sandalwood cologne. “You’re up early,” she said, her pulse racing, her stomach a knot of nerves.
“We’re usually working by seven-thirty,” he answered. “You’ve been taking it easy and sleeping in.”
There was something rather chilling about his smile this morning and her heart faltered and plummeted, making a dramatic swan dive right to her feet.
Locking her knees, she forced herself to look up and meet his gaze head-on. His eyes were light and glacier-cool, like mist rising office.
Last night the kiss had felt so good, but now, in the clear light of day, she knew it had been a dreadful mistake. Sheikh Makin Al-Koury was too big, too powerful, and far from civilized. He might have millions and billions of euros, and expensive toys and homes scattered across the globe, but that didn’t make him easy, or comfortable or approachable.
“No wonder you’re sending me away. I’ve become unforgivably lazy,” she answered lightly, forcing a smile as she placed an unsteady hand over the narrow waistband of her ivory lace skirt, hoping he’d be fooled by her bravado.
“No one can be perfect all the time.” He smiled at her. “How are you this morning?”
“Good.”
“And you slept well?”
He was still smiling but she felt far from easy. “Yes, thank you.”
“Excellent.” He paused, gazed down at her, his expression inscrutable. “In that case, I trust you feel well enough to take some dictation?”
“Dictation?” She hoped he didn’t hear the slight stutter in her voice.
“I need a letter written, a letter that must go out today. I’m hoping to put it on the flight with you.”
“Of course.” Emmeline fought panic and reminded herself that she could do this. She could play the game a little longer. pretend a little longer. “Would you like me come to your office?”
“That’s not necessary.” He put a hand on the door and pushed it all the way open. “I’m already here.”
Emmeline stepped aside to let him in. “I just need some paper and a pen.”
“You’ll find both in your desk in the bedroom,” he said helpfully. “In case you’ve forgotten.”
She darted a quick look into his face, trying to understand where he was going with this, because he was most definitely going somewhere and she didn’t like it. “Thank you.”
Heart hammering, stomach churning, she headed to the bedroom to retrieve the pad of paper and a pen from the desk, and then hesitated at the mirror hanging over the painted chest of drawers. She looked elegant this morning in her ivory silk blouse and matching lace skirt. She’d pulled her dark hair back and added a rope of pearls, and Emmeline could only pray that her polished exterior would hide her anxiety. She didn’t know anything about taking dictation. She’d never dictated a letter, either, but she’d never let the sheikh know that.
Back in the living room, Emmeline sat down on the edge of the pale gold silk couch, pen poised. “I’m ready.”
He glanced at her pen hovering above paper and then into her eyes. He smiled, again, all hard white teeth. “I’m not sure how to start the letter,” he said. “Perhaps you can help me? It’s for an acquaintance, King Zale Patek of Raguva. I’m not sure about the salutation. Would I say ‘Dear Your Royal Highness’? Or just ‘Your Highness’? What do you think?”
Emmeline’s cheeks grew hot. She fought to keep her voice even. “I think either would work.”
